


Same Old Fears, Wish You Were Here

by cagethesongbird



Series: Classification AU [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed-Wetting, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugs, Non-Sexual Age Play, alternate universe - littles are known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagethesongbird/pseuds/cagethesongbird
Summary: Elliot doesn't know if he's wanted.Tyrell, who loves him more than life itself, is confused by this.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson & Mr. Robot, Elliot Alderson & Tyrell Wellick
Series: Classification AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820335
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Same Old Fears, Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> so. i just want to express my absolute gratitude for the support, especially everyone who's been kind enough to leave me a comment, on "trojan horses". i know nsap is weird, i do it irl. so i could've gotten hate, and maybe i even expected hate, but the absolute outpouring of love has blown me away. here's a fic from that 'verse bc i love you guys so much :) 
> 
> thank you, always, for reading.
> 
> Edit: if everyone else is a Trojan horse, Robot is a battering ram. Ba dum tss

“What are you doing?” Mr. Robot asks, even though it’s glaringly obvious. “You need to go to Tyrell.”

“I don’t need him,” Elliot hisses, stuffing his wet sheets deeper into the black garbage bag. From the look on his face and the stiffness to his motion, you would think he was disposing of a dead body.

“And I don’t need you, either. Fuck off. Leave. Or stay, do what you want. But get the fuck out of my way.”

Mr. Robot doesn’t move, or leave, or fuck off. Of course.

“You don’t need him,” he drawls, used to the bullshit. He lights himself a cigarette, despite the fact that Elliot no longer smokes. And though it’s not real, and Elliot knows it’s not real, he can nearly feel the nicotine coursing through Robot’s veins, and it makes him – and the tiny addict that nested in his brain cavity – livid.

“If you don’t need him, why have you been pissing the bed every night?”

It was complicated, and somewhat hinging on how bad his nightmares were, but it was mostly pride. He was ashamed to need the diapers, and even more than that, he was ashamed to need the help. He was ashamed to be dependent, to put Tyrell out in the middle of the night, even though they both know he would come running.

“The guy worships you,” Robot says. He produces cigarette number two, lights it with a Bic Elliot recognizes as his own, of the many he still had lying around. “He doesn’t mind wiping your ass.”

And while that was the uncomfortable truth, Elliot had a hard time seeing what Tyrell gained from putting up with him.

“Enough of this,” Robot announces, and he does something he hadn’t done in a very long time: he takes over, without pushing Elliot out.

It’s a strange feeling, akin to riding passenger. He can see – hear, feel, taste – but he isn’t the one making the body move. He’s trapped.

_ROBOT, LET ME GO!_

Mr. Robot does no such thing. “It’s for your own good, kiddo.”

He feels Elliot scream. The nickname probably came at a bad time.

“Where is Elliot?” is Tyrell’s first question, running a tired hand over his face. He lets Robot into the apartment, clad in only pajama pants, and puts a pot of coffee on.

“Good on you for telling the difference,” Robot murmurs. “But he’s here. He can hear you, and see you, if he wants to.”

_I’m gonna fucking kill you when i get out of here to d0 y0u fucking h3ar m3!_

Robot smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds a hand to his forehead, momentarily looking like he was in extreme pain. Tyrell hated to see Elliot – any kind of Elliot – like that, so he reaches out.

“Not him, sweetheart,” Robot says, holding up a hand. Tyrell deflates. This was not his Elliot, and he didn’t think he would ever have to share.

“He’ll be back,” Robot says, kindly. More kindly than Tyrell had ever known him to be, because he wants to do this delicately. Because despite Mr. Robot’s abrasive nature, this wasn’t the time to be hurting Tyrell’s feelings. “He just thinks you don’t want him.”

But Tyrell doesn’t look hurt. He looks confused, his brows scrunched together. “Why would I have done all this, if I didn’t want him?”

“My son doesn’t listen to reason,” Robot says, and it takes Tyrell many seconds to recover from the word ‘son.’

“But you do, somehow. I had to take the wheel, so you would know, and he’s not very happy about it. But this isn’t my discussion to have, so just… brace yourself.”

Elliot comes out kicking and screaming, the same way he was born. “ _I’ll fucking kill you you imaginary friend motherfucker I’ll kill you I’ll put a fucking bullet in your brain – “_

He stops, because it’s not Robot. It’s Tyrell – though Elliot doesn’t know how they got to the apartment. Tyrell looks startled, but not angry, even though Elliot’s gone nuts in his kitchen at one in the morning.

“What happened, baby?” Tyrell’s voice is hushed. Not the kind of voice Elliot appreciated when he got like this, but it does what it is intended to do: he doesn’t feel very angry anymore. Just sad, scared.

Little.

He fights back the tears, hard. He hated that every time something went a little wrong, the waterworks started up. He fights, but he can’t fight forever, or even for very long, and the tears slip down his cheeks of their own accord.

“You think I don’t want you? Is that it?”

Elliot covers his face with his hands. He hadn’t stopped to shower between his apartment and Tyrell’s, and he feels post-piss yourself gross.

But his pride, still. It beats against his skull in time with his heart.

_Pride goeth before the fall,_ he hears Robot say, off in the distance.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers, barely audible. “I don’t know how.”

Tyrell makes a face. “They don’t have a rulebook on it, darling, although the Chicken Soup people are always trying to write one. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, either. But what’s the harm in trying? Really trying, not holding back like you have been?”

Elliot doesn’t have a good answer to that. His pride, but how long was he going to let that get in the way of his well-being? Was he going to pridefully run himself into the grave?

“I couldn’t find Froggie,” he mutters, looking away. “So I had a nightmare. So I pissed the bed. So Robot showed up. So now I’m here.”

“Froggie’s in your room,” Tyrell says, and suddenly, he’s much closer. “You could have just called. I could have just brought him to you.”

“You could’ve just come home.”

And the word _home_ breaks Elliot’s brain into a trillion pieces. He had never – and even now, he didn’t consider his apartment to be _home._ Home was Darlene, home was his computers, and sometimes it even included Robot. Tyrell, too. But he had never had _home,_ the place you go to at the end of the day.

He lets out a single, broken sob, sopping up his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I know you want me,” he wails, because he did. He just didn't know if he was worth it. “I’m sorry!”

That had been the last thing Tyrell was expecting. “Oh, Elliot, come here…”

Elliot had learned, early on, that physical contact meant pain. But Tyrell’s hugs never hurt, though he did tend to squeeze a little hard. Elliot melts.

“Did you work today?” Tyrell murmurs, still holding him. “Is that why all the fuss?”

“Angela doesn’t treat me the same,” he sniffles, giving into the urge to suck his thumb. “I’m still me, right?”

“Of course,” Tyrell says, and something about the firmness in his voice makes Elliot believe it. The hug ends, and Elliot misses the warmth. “I never liked the Moss woman, to tell you the absolute truth.”

“Angela has Angela problems,” Elliot says, softly. “I just wish she was still my friend.”

“I’m sorry, _sötnos._ Really, that’s no way to treat people. I’m sure I could have her fired…”

“No,” Elliot says immediately. “I don’t want her bankrupt, even if she is being a bitch.”

“You’re a bigger man than I am, then,” Tyrell murmurs. He glances at the clock.

“Are you staying, tonight?”

Elliot thinks of his dark, lonely apartment, as bare as Darlene had allowed it to be. Then, he thinks of his room at Tyrell’s, of the toddler bed (with a frame), the many toys. The light.

“Yes,” Elliot murmurs. He bows his head, as if in prayer. “Sleepy.”

“I’m sure we can take care of that,” Tyrell says.


End file.
